Mirrors
by spoodle monkey
Summary: Nathan can feel that something is wrong. That something is him. Petrellicest, Mylar, HiroAndo SLASH post season 3
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own.

A/N- also posted on my livejournal. This is my first heroes fic and appears to be making itself longer and giving itself a bigger plot. Hmm...anywho- pairings include MOHINDER/SYLAR, PETER/NATHAN (yes, i am actually fully aware that they are related. go away if it bugs you) and HIRO/ANDO (hinted at I believe). Spoilers for the finale of season three...and maybe some other things thrown in here and there. Enjoy and review!

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Mohinder watches the funeral pyre, continues to watch it long after the fire has gone out and the sun is peeking up over the desert and all that's left is ashes. Claire leaves, Bennet leaves, Angela Petrelli leaves- he cannot.

His feet remain glued to the sand beneath him, eyes unable to leave the sight before him.

_It's all over._ It can't be all over he tells himself. It cannot be all over because Sylar is dead and Mohinder wasn't there to-

He brutally cuts off the thought before he can finish it.

Sylar is dead and yet Mohinder is still obsessed. Obsessed with the denial that the body they burned is _Gabriel's_. His obsession hasn't been about revenge for a long time; it merely got twisted and contorted until it appeared that way for everyone to see, Mohinder included.

"Dr. Suresh?" He jumps and tears his eyes away from the ashes. Ando smiles somewhat guiltily at him, he had thought that Ando and Hiro had left.

"Please, just Mohinder." They've been through so much; it seems too formal to call him by his title. Sylar only called him by his title to taunt him.

"Mohinder," Ando tries the name out. "I just wanted to say goodbye before we left." Mohinder follows Ando's gaze to the small car parked a little ways away. He can see Hiro in the passenger seat, staring off into space. He looks lost.

"Will he be alright?" He asks, nodding at Hiro. Ando rubs the back of his head, eyes tinged with worry for his friend.

"Maybe. His powers- they meant a lot to him." They meant that he could protect the people he loves; they meant he could protect Ando. "I'm worried that my powers will reject as well."

Ando never really seemed the type of person to worry overly about himself; this is why Mohinder knows there's more than one side to what Ando is saying. He knows that Ando would sacrifice himself for Hiro if given the chance.

"If my powers don't work, then who will look after Hiro?" He asks quietly, almost to himself. Mohinder isn't sure how to reassure him; there is the very real possibility that they could reject, but also that nothing may happen. Hiro's powers could simply be evolving into something else, something more.

"I am certain," Mohinder begins, looking at the ashes again. "That you will always be there for Hiro and that he knows this." The other man smiles at this, looking away from their friend sitting in the car and back to the doctor.

"You seem sad." Ando notes, no accusation, just simple concern for a friend. Sylar has almost killed them all on more than one occasion, yet Ando appears to hold no great loathing for the deceased man.

"I am." Mohinder admits quietly. It will do no good for the others to hear.

"You didn't hate Sylar as much as you said?" The other man asks, studying him, searching for something. Mohinder isn't sure what it is he's looking for.

"Perhaps I didn't." He muses, scratching his cheek and smudging some soot that landed there. He hated what Sylar was, but he didn't hate Zane or Gabriel. They were all the same person in many ways; you just had to find them.

"I had better get going; we have a flight to book." Ando gestures over his shoulder at the car, where Hiro is glancing at them curiously. Mohinder wonders if Hiro knows what he has. Maybe not at first, but perhaps he does now.

Mohinder watches as Ando walks away, wants to call out _keep in touch_, but he doesn't. He'll hear from them again one day, they're all connected after all.

DI

The second hand was off by eight seconds on every hour. The thought is gnawing away at him as he sits in the dining room. It's an old clock, a good clock- it deserves better. He can fix it, push the second hand back and then listen as it plays sweetly for him.

Clocks were easy, you just needed to understand them and he understands them.

"Nathan?" His mother and brother watch him curiously, expectantly.

"Sorry," He says smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. "Got caught up in my thoughts." Thoughts about clocks of all things.

DI

In the end, Claire is the first one to notice. She and Peter are at Nathan's office, trying to force him out to lunch; he works too hard, Peter tells her. She can see that.

She sits across the desk from her biological father, Peter, her uncle (and she will never get used to that) sitting next to her. They're joking around, talking about some of the weirder powers they came across over the years, carefully talking around anything that may be painful when Nathan breaks off, staring at something over her shoulder.

Claire turns and follows his gaze but doesn't see anything of interest.

"Nathan?" Peter catches his brother's attention. "You alright?"

Nathan looks dazed and irritated by something that she cannot spot.

"Yeah, it's just," He breaks off, frowning. Nathan stands and walks over to the bookshelf, picking up the small, antique clock that sits there, and then pushes the minute hand back slightly. "This clock was four minute off. It was driving me crazy."

Peter stares at him for a minute like he's lost his mind, then shrugs and goes back to talking about a kid that could imitate any voice _perfectly_. Claire tries to unclench her fingers from where they're gripping the arm rest. The two men don't notice.

She tries to breathe normally, tries to appear calm but ends up having to excuse herself to the bathroom. Her reflection is pale and shaky, her eyes haunted.

Claire can hear it now; can hear the slips in his voice, the silky tone it takes on sometimes. And the clocks- how could she have missed the clocks?

That is not Nathan Petrelli sitting behind the desk.

DI

Nathan can feel that something is wrong. He tries to ignore it in the beginning, but after zoning out to the ticking of a clock for the sixth time, it's time to admit that something isn't right. That something is him.

He misses two meetings, thankfully not too important, because the clock in his office has entranced him but every time he goes to get rid of it, he cannot. He finds himself taking it apart and putting it back together one night and promptly gets incredibly drunk.

Heidi leaves him shortly after he gets back; only, he's not sure how or why. When he tries to remember he only receives brief glimpses. It's like a blank in his memory. He has a few of those.

Two weeks after Sylar's impromptu funeral, he begins to have nightmares. Nightmares about killing everyone he loves, of slicing open innocent's heads and taking something from them.

The worst part is, sometimes they feel more than nightmares; feel more like _memories_. One night he dreams, dreams of himself at the hotel, unmoving in one of the chairs as blood seeps from a cut to his throat. He wakes up knowing he is dead.

But he's sitting in bed, so it was just a dream, just a dream- nothing more, not a _memory_.

He has lunch with his mother and a few times he looks up from his food and can almost see the mistrust and doubt in her eyes and a strange chill runs through him. Then he blinks and it's gone; he must be getting paranoid. More paranoid than usual.

Nathan tries to keep Peter away, sometimes, when he's feeling strong. More often than not, he's incapable of saying no to his baby brother, of saying no to shy smiles and lingering touches. He's broken, something inside him has broken and he _needs_ to keep Peter safe.

He's not sure if Peter's safer closer or further away from him.

DI

Mohinder dreams of Sylar. He tries to go without sleep for as long as he can, anything to stave off the dreams he knows are going to come, but eventually he gives in and slips under.

Nightmares are all he sees for the first few weeks after the funeral. For one ridiculous moment when he's barely slept, he entertains the idea that this is Sylar's way of telling him not to forget about him.

Then the nightmares become more, and he wakes most nights with an aching need coursing through him and an invisible lover burning their touch into his skin. His skin is slick with sweat and more, with the blankets twisted around his legs from where he had tried to pull his dream closer, to make it real. His throat is hoarse from calling out to someone that will never reply.

But every so often his dreams slip; he sleeps a full, long night, feeling refreshed the next day and ready to get on with his work.

Those nights he dreams of coming home after work, curling up on the couch and resting his head on a t-shirt clad shoulder with pale arms wrapping around his waist. He should feel ashamed of these dreams- of wishing for a cold blooded killer so much it hurts- but he doesn't.

He just feels empty.

DI

"There's something wrong." Nathan pauses outside of the dining room, as voices filter through the crack in the door.

"It's fine, it's probably just some lingering feelings." Bennet's voice tries to reassure his Ma. Nathan knows that he should turn around and leave them be or announce his presence, let them know he's there.

He remains silent and presses himself closer to the door. He can't see them but he can hear the soft tread of Bennet's shoes as he paces around the room.

"It's more serious than that." His mother insists. She sounds worried, an edge to her voice that he hasn't heard in awhile. "You haven't seen him with the clocks." Something inside of him freezes at the mention of his slight obsession. There isn't anyone else they could be talking about.

"It's just clocks, Angela." But Bennett is beginning to sound worried. Nathan's hand clenches at his side. He knows there's something wrong with him, but what right do they have to discuss it without him there?

_Tic-tock._

He glances around, but there aren't any clocks in the long hallway. There once was, but he has the feeling his mother moved most of the clocks in the house, protecting him- but from what?

_Tic-tock._

He doesn't need to be protected. He's the one that does the protecting.

"He's entranced by them. He knows _exactly_ how they work." Why is she worried about him knowing how to fix a clock? He thought she'd be glad that he fixed the grandfather clock upstairs, it hadn't worked for years.

_Tic-tic-tock._

"There was always the chance that this could have happened." Bennett lowers his voice so Nathan has to strain to hear him. "You know Parkman isn't infallible."

Parkman? What the hell did Parkman have to do with anything?

_Tic-tic-tic-tock. Tic-tic-_

"Hey! I'm here!" Nathan jerks upright, unaware that he had been slouching forwards. His hands are clench into fists tightly at his side, he unclenches them. The voices in the room drop to furtive whispers. "Anyone here yet?"

Nathan ignores the whispers and turns, heading out to the front hall to greet his brother.

DI

Mohinder arrives last, a bottle of wine clutched in his hand. He's not sure what to expect; Peter's idea for a group dinner was a brilliant idea, but he wonders if they can still all be in the same space with nothing more to run from.

The dinner is awkward to say the least. He catches himself looking around the table, at a few empty seats and filling them in his head with Hiro, Ando and Sylar. This happens once and he viciously stomps down on the thought. The last thing he needs is Matt in his head.

Peter and Nathan sit at one end of the table, grinning and laughing loudly, inviting everyone else to join in on the joke. Matt laughs lightly but it seems forced and Mohinder notices right away how he refuses to meet the Petrelli brother's eyes. Something has happened but he isn't sure what.

Surprisingly, Claire has positioned herself far away from Nathan. He'd thought she would take the seat next to him, spend time with her other father, but she sits next to Bennett, staring stonily at the wall opposite her. Bennett speaks to her quietly but Mohinder doesn't think she's about to tell anyone what is wrong.

Angela Petrelli takes his hand at one point and comments on how thin he is looking. Mohinder laughs it off, says something about missing a few meals because of the exciting new turns in his research.

He doesn't mention how he's in mourning for someone that tried to kill him repeatedly.

Ando and Hiro send their regards but they're back in Japan and settling back into life. Last he heard Ando had asked Hiro to move in; to keep an eye on him, Ando had written. Mohinder suspects there's more to it.

Wine is passed around and after another hour, everyone seems to relax, maybe there's a chance that this will happen again. He hopes it does, it appears to be good for everyone.

Mohinder excuses himself early when he catches himself drifting off at the table. He calls a taxi, which is still an odd feeling and says his goodbyes.

But as he's walking to the door, familiar brown eyes catch his and his breath catches in his chest. There's no way, no possible way.

He blinks and it's gone and he's staring at Nathan Petrelli again.

Mohinder shakes his head and smiles ruefully as he continues to the door. He must be more tired than he thought.

"Mohinder." He freezes. "Safe drive." Nathan says, clapping him on the shoulder. But for a second he could have sworn that Nathan's voice dipped down, taking on a silkier quality.

DI

Nathan's curled up on the couch, Peter's side pressed firmly against his as they watch some old movie and try to bridge the gaps that have formed. It's the way they should be, a united front, together. Nathan hesitates on the word _forever_.

He cuts off half way through his impersonation of Harrison Ford when Peter's eyes go wide and his brother stiffens next to him. Nathan tenses, prepared to take on whatever has startled his brother, but Peter is staring at him and Nathan feels something inside of him twist uncomfortably at the look.

"Pete-" His brother blinks but remains pale, startled- _afraid_. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Your eyes." Nathan is on his feet in an instant, confusion warring with panic as he strides over to the mirror mounted on the wall.

His eyes- they aren't his eyes. They're too dark, warm but sinister. A stranger's eyes he wants to say, but they're familiar. The image of him in the chair, blood pouring down from his neck comes to mind.

Nathan reaches out unsteadily, gripping the end table, using it to hold his body up. He feels weak, nervous, _excited_. It scares him.

"I think…" He licks his lips nervously. "There's something wrong with me, Pete."  
Peter rises from the couch slowly, probably so as not to startle Nathan and approaches. Nathan watches their reflections in the mirror, Peter slightly behind his shoulder, watching him with worry and something deeper than just brotherly love.

Then the image twists slightly and suddenly it's not Nathan standing there. Sylar's cold smirk taunts him for a moment before it twists and suddenly the smirk is replaced by a lost, confused look.

Nathan blinks and it's just him and Peter standing before the mirror and his eyes have returned to normal. Peter keeps gazing at him, he didn't see Sylar. It proves Nathan must be losing it.

"I'll help you, Nathan." There's his brother, saving the world, saving Nathan. "I've got your back." He knows.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still don't own.

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"There's something wrong with Nathan." Peter blurts out as Claire opens the door. He slips by her without waiting to be invited in and begins pacing anxiously. It doesn't bother her; she can feel the anxiety coming off him in waves. Her parents are out; trying to mend their marriage and her brother has locked himself in his room until he can complete the next level of his game.

"What do you mean?" She asks, but Claire already has an idea about what he's talking about.

"Last night," Peter runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up. It makes him look even younger. "His eyes changed. Like actually changed- they were darker…familiar." Darker. There's a hesitation to him that tells her all she needs to know. He recognizes the eyes, but won't say anything.

"He knows there's something wrong with him," Peter continues, crossing his arms and staring sightlessly out the window. "But I don't know what to do. I can't lose him, Claire." He admits quietly. She pretends not to hear the desperation in his voice.

"Peter, I don't think it _is_ Nathan." He turns and stares at her, disbelief colouring his features. She sits there patiently and waits for him to say something.

"What are you talking about? Of course it's Nathan- it's the same hair, eyes, freckles…" He trails off as he remembers the shape shifters they've come across. "He was doing his Harrison Ford impersonation last night; he knew the punch lines to all of my corny jokes! It's Nathan."

She doesn't know how it's possible, doesn't know how to prove it to him, but she knows without a doubt that it's _not_ Nathan; not really.

"Peter…"

"If it's not Nathan, then who the hell do you think it is?" Just the fact that he's asking means that there is a sliver of doubt in his mind.

DI

He wakes with a jolt, sitting upright in bed and frantically searching for whatever monsters are lurking in the dark. His skin is slick with sweat raising goose bumps on his arms from the chill. His blankets have wound their way around him, trapping him and adding to a claustrophobia he can't explain. He fights with the blankets, coming close to ripping them as he frees himself.

His heart is racing a mile a minute, thudding painfully in his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

His nightmares are getting worse. He dreams of Claire's blood, of Peter pinned to the wall, helpless, of Mohinder, battered and bruised on the ceiling, of countless people he cannot name, dead- blank eyes staring accusingly up at him. At first in the dream he feels excited; intrigued with the prospect of pulling something apart and discovering how it works. Remorse doesn't hit him until the very end right before he wakes.

He dreams again of his own death, sees himself sitting there, blood pouring from the gaping wound and knows he is dead. Being awake does nothing to reassure him.

He sees his mother and Bennet and Matt Parkman leaning over him, talking frantically but everything is distorted and he can't hear them properly.

The worst part of these dreams is that they feel like _memories_.

"Nathan?" He jerks, surprised as the door to his room is pushed open and light from the hall spills in. "I heard you yelling."

Peter stands there, hand rubbing at his eyes in a vain attempt to wake up, to help his brother. Nathan swallows, noticing how his throat feels raw, like he's been screaming in his sleep. Peter should be back at his apartment where he can't hear his brother screaming, running from some monster that doesn't exist anymore.

"Nightmares." He grunts out. Peter nods and steps further into the room, letting the door close behind him. The bed sinks next to him as his eyes adjust to the dark again.

"Shove over." Peter instructs. Nathan hesitates. If the dreams come again, he doesn't want Peter there to witness them first hand. But his brother persists, so Nathan slides over and holds up the covers for Peter.

His brother manages to take up half of the bed and most of the covers and still drape himself half over Nathan's side. He lets himself drift, calmed by Peter's steady breathing and almost falls back asleep before Peter speaks again.

"Do you ever dream of Sylar?" Nathan tenses, thoughts rushing. The room is suddenly stifling.

"Sometimes." He whispers.

DI

Mohinder isn't expecting visitors. He's buried himself in his research, as both a way to cope with his mourning and a way to forget who he is mourning. He's vainly trying not to wonder if he had helped Sylar, had offered a friend even after he had found out who he was, if their paths wouldn't have been different.

It's ridiculous, Mohinder needed to feel the rage and helplessness about his father's death or he would not have been the man he is today. Things happen for a reason.

Peter showing up at Mohinder's door is unexpected.

He opens his door, staring, confused at his friend for a moment, before opening the door wider to let him in. He doesn't for a second believe it to be a simple visit, not with the way Peter's shoulders hunch or the dark rings under his eyes make him even paler than normal.

"What can I do for you?" Mohinder asks. "Would you like some tea?" Peter looks like he could use it.

Mohinder heads for the small kitchen, trusting Peter to follow. Feet shuffle from behind him as he reaches for the kettle and pours water into it.

"How would you describe Sylar?" Mohinder pauses, watching the water fill the kettle. He's not sure where the question is coming from, but when he turns around Peter is watching him, determined. Mohinder swallows around a suddenly dry mouth and turns back to the stove.

"A cold blooded killer," He begins, except it doesn't sound right. There was something wrong with Sylar, something that needed to be fixed. "Clinical, brilliant, someone I once thought I loathed but now I cannot seem to forget."

He sets the water to boil and turns back waiting to see the rage and disbelief on Peter's face once he realizes what Mohinder means.

"Someone I do not wish to forget." He adds half to himself. Thoughts of Sylar keep him company and some part of him realizes that this must be what going mad feels like but at the same time he feels like he's finally seeing things clearly.

"Sylar was a murderer." Peter sinks into one of the seats at the rickety table he picked up at a yard sale a few weeks back. There's less conviction to the statement. Mohinder wonders what has changed. His voice reminds him of Mohinder after the funeral when he first began fighting his every thought.

"He was." Mohinder agrees, pulling the kettle off the stove when it begins to scream and takes a moment to make two cups of tea. It brings back memories that he cannot force aside and has to endure for the moment. "But you already know this."

He's not about to rush to Sylar's defense but there are some things that one cannot fully understand, or judge, without the rest of the story. Unfortunately it appears that in this case the story has been lost.

"There's something wrong with Nathan." Peter blurts out, but he seems resigned. It makes Mohinder wonder how many others Peter has had to repeat this to. He obviously hasn't found the answer he's looking for yet. He's still searching for something he may not want found.

"How so?" Mohinder places one cup in front of Peter, then sits and takes a tentative sip from his own. It gives his hands something to do.

"He's not sleeping and when he does he has nightmares. I can hear the screams from my old room." Mohinder raises an eyebrow; he hadn't known Peter was staying at the Petrelli house. It's beginning to seem that no one is free from nightmares recently. "And his eyes," Mohinder nearly chokes on his tea. Peter doesn't notice. "They've changed colour a few times, turned darker- they almost look like…"

Peter trails off appearing to rethink whatever it was he was about to say. He looks ready to dismiss it; Mohinder can't let him do that, not if it's what he thinks it is.

"I thought I was imagining things." Peter looks up sharply at Mohinder's confession. "After the dinner, I saw them change. But only for a second."

"I don't know why it's happening." His friend looks broken, lost. He feels the need to fix him rush through him. "Claire thinks…Claire thinks it's not Nathan at all."

"Not Nathan?" Mohinder repeats, barely daring to believe, to breathe.

"She thinks it's someone else, but it's not possible." No- it isn't possible.

DI

The room is tense. He figures he's largely to blame for it but he's not really sure how to change it. Claire won't even look at him, she sits on one of the sofa's, every so often looking to his left to trade a glance with Peter, but her eyes never land long on him. Nathan isn't sure what he's done to deserve it.

Mohinder alternates between sitting so still that he appears to not be breathing to shifting in his seat, a bundle of nervous energy- he's not sure he's ever seen the doctor this way before.

Peter sits perched on the side of Nathan's chair, one hand planted firmly on Nathan's shoulder, reassurance- for both of them, he decides.

The door opens quickly as the person on the other side looks around for an attack that he knows to be there.

Every gaze in the room turns to Matt Parkman as he takes in the scene before him with a wary gaze. Nathan slowly realizes that his dream of his mother, Bennet and Parkman standing over him isn't just a dream.

Matt looks panicked, glances to the door and appears to be trying to decide whether to run or not.

Nathan reaches out and flicks the door closed with an invisible force; then he freezes, realizing what he's just done. He can _fly_; he shouldn't be able to do that. It was just instinct.

He's aware of the others stares on him but he meets Matt's squarely.

"What's going on?" Matt asks, the question is for whoever will answer him, but his gaze doesn't leave Nathan.

_Tic-tock_.

Not now; the clocks are starting up again.

"What did you do?" Peter asks voice hard. His hand clenches almost painfully on Nathan's shoulder. He fights down the urge to reach out and cover the hand in his own.

"I didn't- nothing!" Mohinder stands from the couch, something indiscernible on his face as he faces Matt. "Nothing- I didn't do anything."

"Matt." Mohinder speaks quietly, gently, reminds them all that they're all supposed to still be friends. Supposed to be family. "Did you do something to Nathan's memories?"

_Tic-tock_.

Do what? Suppress them? Add in other memories- add in his own _death?_

_Tic-tic-tock._

"I- I just…" The man looks around, eyes wide, hands shaking. Peter is up and off the edge of the seat in an instant, moving faster than he had thought his brother capable of. The next instant he's removing his hand from the skin at the back of Matt's neck, an unreadable look on his face.

"Don't even think about using your powers on us." He says quietly. Don't even think of using your powers on _Nathan_ is what he means.

_Tic-tic-tock._

"Bennet and Mrs. Petrelli, they thought it was for the best." His ma wanted them to do this? All these nightmares and hallucinations- it was his _ma_?

_Tic—tic—tic—tock._

He can feel it fighting to get free- whatever they suppressed; it's inside of him, trying to claw its way out. He can feel the fight inside of him weakening, he just wants to give in, let it take him. He can't live forever with the nightmares and the visions, hell- he just used a power he _knows_ he doesn't have.

_Tic—tic—tic—to-_

He just wants to be himself again.

"Fix it." Nathan's voice isn't as loud but everyone hears him. The room goes silent. Peter is the first to break.

"No- Nathan, you don't know what they did to you!"

"Fix it." Nathan repeats, steely gaze on Matt, then Peter. "Change it back. Make me, _me_ again." Across the room Claire freezes. He pretends not to notice how his voice just dropped.

"Your eyes." Mohinder whispers. There's a look on his face, like he's trying so hard not to believe. Believe in what Nathan wonders.

Matt swallows, face grim, lips pressed tightly together. Then he nods. He crosses the room, slips around Peter who looks ready to fight but doesn't for Nathan's sake and places a hand on the side of his face.

"This will hurt." He tells him.

_Tic-tock_.

And it does.


End file.
